


Inconveniently Broken

by OldTsuki



Series: Inconveniently [6]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, FP and Gladys on the outs, Family Drama, Worried Jughead, angst that resolves into fluff, domestic!Betty, supportive betty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-21 05:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14908820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldTsuki/pseuds/OldTsuki
Summary: Jughead, and many of the Serpents, have been camping out in Fox Forest ever since Hiram and the Ghoulies wrecked Sunnyside Trailer Park. Though Jughead could have gone home earlier, he's stuck it out to support his fellow Serpents. Since Cheryl has offered those who need more time to gather their finances for security deposits asylum in Thornhill, the campsite has slowly emptied. Betty convinces Jughead that it's finally time to go home--even if that means facing his dad, and finding out what happened when FP went to Toledo. Jughead thinks that he already knows what to expect.Angst with a happy-ish ending. Written for Day 6 of the Southside Showcase, "Sunnyside Trailer Park."





	Inconveniently Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Rated for a bit of mature content in the beginning, but you should be able to skip it over if you'd like to get to the angst beyond and still understand what's going on.

Betty and Jughead were laying on his air mattress. She turned her body to one side and curled to look up at him, one hand sliding partially over his chest. Since June was nearly drawing to a close, it was already warm and humid, even in the early morning. As such, Jughead had slept only in his boxers, and Betty was wearing only a tank top. When she raised her chin, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Jug,” she said, her voice soft. “We should do it today.”

He was quiet, tracing his fingers in illegible patterns over the small of her back while he digested her words.

“Jug,” Betty said again, unrelenting.

Like he hadn’t heard her, he let his fingers wander ever lower until they were sliding over the smooth curve of her exposed ass, cupping a perfect handful. As he squeezed his grip, he pressed his lips against hers and nudged her nose with his as she melted against him. He ran his fingers up into her hair. Betty’s hands wandered as well, sliding across his chest and over his shoulder. As Jughead leisurely slid his tongue over hers, he revelled in the warm heat of her mouth. It was a different sort of burning, not like the arid summer heat. More like someone was holding a brand against his soul.

As they parted, Betty pressed her forehead against his and sighed. 

“Nice try, Jug,” she whispered, her green eyes meeting his with the same steely resolve they’d conveyed before.

He groaned. 

“Betty,” he pleaded, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to. I want to stay here, with you, in bed.”

She smirked, using one finger to stroke a dark curl away from his eyes. “I want that too, Jug. Believe me. And we can do that on another day-- _with air conditioning_.”

He was among the last to remain camped out in Fox Forest, and he knew it. Staying there had been a sign of the commitment he was making to the Serpents who chose to remain, trusting in his leadership. Since many had chosen to move into Thornhill, the campsite had been quickly dwindling. Now, less than a half dozen tents remained. And unlike many of the others, Jughead did have a place to go.

Betty’s Mom had left town with her sister, and she’d been holding down Riverdale's Murder House on her own. But despite Betty’s mental fortitude, something about being alone in the shell of her childhood home—forever transformed by events far beyond her control—was simply too much. She’d been staying with Jughead for most of the month, going home to take in the mail and cook new delicacies to bring back to the campsite. 

So it wasn’t Betty’s house that either of them were thinking of. No, their refuge had always been Jughead’s trailer, and that was where both of them wanted to go. There was only one thing holding them back.

His dad.

Since FP came back to town he’d been reclusive. Beyond reclusive--he’d hardly said more than a handful of words to anyone, and he’d become the absolute antithesis of social. Jughead was almost personally affronted—after all, being the town’s resident loner weirdo had always been more of his own MO—but it seemed like something during FP’s visit out of state had gone terribly wrong. Betty agreed with Jughead’s suspicions, and they arrived at the unfortunate conclusion that they would only uncover the truth by confronting him.

But if their meeting with FP didn’t go as planned, Betty and Jughead would have to resort to staying in the Cooper home. That meant curious onlookers trying to snap pictures through the windows, possibly creating undeniable evidence that they’d been there together in Alice’s absence. Regardless of whatever psychotic brainwashing Betty might think her mom was being put through, Jughead knew that no universe existed where Alice wouldn’t castrate him barehanded if she was given the proper motive. Add to that the fact that they had no idea when she was expected to come home, and it would be like a game of Russian Roulette. No, the Cooper house simply wasn't a reasonable option.

“Jug, I’m going,” Betty announced, starting to push herself up off the air mattress. By that, he knew that she meant she would go to the trailer herself. But Jughead snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her back down, getting her just off balance enough that she had to throw one leg over him to keep from crashing down. Just as he’d intended.

The moment she unintentionally straddled him, he smirked and bucked his hips. The thin fabric of his boxers was the only thing separating them, which meant that very little was left to their imaginations. Betty gasped, narrowing her eyes as she looked down at him.

“You sure...you’re not coming?” He teased, unable to resist the joke once he thought of it.

She slapped his shoulder—the good one, not the one with the shiny new pink scar. Leaning over, she brushed her lips over his and said, “You’re going home today, Jughead, and we can continue this conversation _there_ later.”

With that, Betty straightened and climbed up. Jughead groaned again, letting his head fall back on his pillow and closing his eyes in frustration. He wanted to confront his dad about Toledo as much as he wanted to confront Malachi, the leader of the Ghoulies. Both would need to happen eventually, but the longer Jughead procrastinated on both accounts, the more likely he felt that he wouldn’t get terribly hurt.

He watched his beautiful girlfriend run a brush through her hair and pull it into her ponytail. As she turned, he caught a glimpse of the new Serpent tattoo on her outer thigh. She leaned over to find some fresh clothes in her bag, placing herself close enough that Jughead could reach out and trace the ‘S’ shape.

Betty glanced down at him with a rueful expression. Eyes softening, she said, “I mean it.”

He knew there would be no distracting her any more. Jughead pushed himself up and began hunting for his own clothes, tossing aside old laundry in a quest for the folded garments underneath. Once Betty decided upon something like this, she was going to see it through. And it wasn’t like he didn’t suspect what had happened in Toledo...it was just a matter of hearing it verbally confirmed by his dad. In truth, he was almost already prepared for it.

Pulling on a pair of passably clean shorts and a clean t-shirt, he brushed through his hair with his fingers and tugged his beanie into place. Betty found a pretty coral sundress, turning away as she pulled the zipper up the small of her back.

“Let’s go,” he grumbled. Hopefully his dad would have coffee made, at least. Jughead was looking forward to living where there was an electric coffee pot again.

He and Betty held hands as they walked out of the campsite, leisurely passing by the few blocks that separated them from the trailer park. The closer he came to his childhood home, the more he felt as if the old familiar feeling of dread was a tangible thing within his body. It felt like a cold iron rod through his sternum, terminating somewhere around the pit of his stomach. Jughead knew it would be futile to send Betty away--he didn’t _want_ to send her away, actually--but he was dreading what they might find when they got to the trailer. Probably nothing that would surprise him, but he’d give anything to keep her from seeing his dad at his lowest, shittiest state. A quiet FP was more dangerous than a loud one, and history indicated that either one would probably be drinking after what Jughead was assuming he’d gone through. His dad was a one-trick pony when it came to handling stress, rejection, depression, celebrations, and Monday nights alike.

As they turned the corner and walked into what remained of the trailer park, passing the burned-out husks of trailers that the Ghoulies had wrecked, Jughead realized that he was starting to squeeze Betty’s hand. He willed himself to relax, glancing over with an apologetic look. She met his eyes and smiled faintly. If anyone understood that unconscious reflex, it was Betty.  
His dad’s car was parked next to the trailer, and his bike was parked alongside it. At least they knew he was home.

He wondered briefly if he should knock on his own door, to give his old man some warning. It seemed pointless, since he anticipated that his dad would be semi-unconscious on the couch. Jughead fit his key into the door and pushed, blinking briefly as his eyes adjusted to what he saw inside.

There weren’t any bottles on the ground, which had been the first thing he was expecting. Jughead had memories of weekends where he’d stacked bottles along the lines of linoleum in the kitchen and pushed his three-wheeled Hot Wheels car between them, pretending they were buildings in a city. It was almost sickening to be surprised by a clean floor, but he was.

The TV was on in the corner, mindlessly issuing noise and images to an empty couch. Jughead stepped inside first, looking around. There weren’t any dishes in the kitchen or take out boxes on the counter, which was another alarming sign. Since his mom had left, Jughead had virtually taken over ensuring that their kitchen didn’t attract ants or fruit flies. He’d only seen his dad touch dish soap a handful of times in his life.

Betty let go of his hand and lingered just inside the doorway. Her eyes moved to the hall, which lead to his dad’s bedroom and the trailer’s closet-like bathroom. Jughead let his feet carry him there, bracing himself against the thin papered surface of the hallway wall as he willed his body to continue moving toward the closed door he immediately noticed. His imagination started to get the better of him, and he began anticipating all sorts of horrible reasons why his father might be naturally incapacitated. As he approached, his ears were filled with static, like the TV had lost reception or he’d bumped the radio dial between two stations--but the trailer was essentially silent. Maybe he was hearing the rush of the River Styx, as the ferryman came to collect his dad’s weary soul.

The door was cracked just enough that Jughead could see a figure sprawled across the bed. A rocky lump expanded in his throat as he pushed his way into the room, eyes hoping to see any sign of movement. He was just working up the courage to reach out and shake his dad’s shoulder when FP suddenly gasped for breath, and snored.

Jughead blinked rapidly. “Fuck,” he said to himself, laughing a little to dispel his tension. Reaching out with more certainty, he grabbed his dad’s shoulder and shook. “Dad,” he said, then more forcefully, “Dad!”

With another sputtering snore, his eyes opened and he regarded Jughead as if he were a complete stranger. His bloodshot corneas looked massive, pupils dilating wildly as they struggled to focus on the teenager bent over the bed.

FP ground out, “Jug?” with a voice still thick from sleep.

Jughead sighed and straightened. “Sorry to wake you up, dad. I needed to ask you a few things. Betty came with me...we’ll give you a minute.”

He backed out of the room and closed the door. He hadn’t seen any bottles in there, either, which meant that he’d most definitely unfairly assumed his dad was having a bender. That unsettled Jughead more than all the wild thoughts he’d entertained while coming here--if his dad hadn’t been quietly drinking himself to death, then what had he been doing since he came back to town?

Betty looked up when he came back into the living room, her eyes wide with concern. She’d sat down on the old couch, her hands folded in her lap. Jughead gratefully sank into the space next to her, leaning over and putting his head on her shoulder as she opened her arms to hold him.

She pressed her cheek against his beanie. “Is he okay?” she whispered, knowing that words travelled easily from one end of the trailer to the other.

Jughead nodded, sitting up straight and letting her arms fall away. “I think so,” he replied, eyes still watching the hallway through the kitchen for any sign of his dad.

A few minutes later, they could hear the sounds of a prolonged groan and subsequent rustling. His dad emerged from the hall moments later, wearing new clothes and blinking in the daylight filtering through the kitchen blinds. Rummaging through the cupboards, he produced a clean coffee cup and filled it with some leftover brew from the cold pot. He microwaved it for less than a minute, popping the door open before it had a chance to beep. Holding the cup like a buoy, he walked into the living room and sat in the armchair.

“Good morning,” he mumbled, sipping at his coffee.

Betty smiled faintly. “Morning, Mr. Jones. Sorry to wake you up,” she said, as sweet as always. 

Jughead just stared, waiting for his dad to say something. He was hoping that he would just explain without being asked, without making Jughead voice the things that he hoped his imagination had concocted. Growing up on a steady diet of Hollywood and disappointment had made certain aspects of his mind overactive, and he was grown enough now to realize that. 

FP Jones regarded his son levelly over the rim of his coffee cup, taking a long drink. As he lowered the porcelain, he said, “Jughead mentioned you have something to ask me?”

So he’d thrown the ball into their court. Jughead should have known it was too much to hope for that his dad would simply explain. He drew in a breath and didn’t break eye contact as he said, “Did you get to see mom?”

His dad’s eyes were what flinched, though his hands remained steady. That gave it away. He raised the coffee mug again, evidently obscuring whatever reaction he’d immediately had to the question.

“Yeah,” his dad said, blinking.

Jughead waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. He’d known deep down that this wasn’t going to be easy, for either of them. That was why he’d been procrastinating.

“What did she say?” Jughead asked, his voice dipping uncomfortably halfway through the relatively short inquiry. Betty reached over and quietly put her hand on his leg. He was already cursing himself for getting emotional preemptively.

His dad was the first to glance away. Seeming to hesitate as he tried to select the right words, he said, “Nothing you need to worry about, boy.”

It wasn’t the response he was expecting. Again, Jughead was thrown off-center as the events of the day went far afield of what he’d anticipated. Now he was hesitating, shocked by the distinct lack of information his dad had offered in response to his relatively direct question. He frowned and said, “Dad--what does that mean? You came back here and disappeared. Did something happen?”

There--he’d said it.

His dad was eerily quiet again. If Betty’s hand hadn’t been on his leg, Jughead might have found himself adrift in the mire of anxiety that bit into his consciousness after giving voice to that deep-rooted suspicion. He was immensely grateful for the way that she grounded him, like a lifeline, to his goal for the conversation. If she hadn’t been there, he might already have cut his losses and left.

“Well shit, Jug, of course something happened,” his dad swore, still looking away. “I’ve lied enough to you, boy--more than I should have in a lifetime. Sometimes people keep things from each other for a reason. Right now, you’re just going to have to trust that I’ve got a pretty damn good one and leave this alone.”

Well, the shoe didn’t completely drop, but it was close enough. Jughead was fairly certain that his mom had done what she did best--thrown a Jones man out of her life, as gently as she could, nearly killing him with her kindness. It was the bus ticket to Toledo all over again.

He nodded curtly, finally meeting his dad’s eyes again. Understanding passed between them, as it only could between two people who had been abandoned by someone they relied upon implicitly. Betty’s hand tightened on his leg incrementally as the silence wore on.  
“Consider it left,” Jughead said quietly, glancing over at her. She tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear unconsciously with her other hand, still looking at his dad. Recalling the dual purpose of their visit, he said, “I was thinking of getting out of the woods, if that’s okay with you.”

His dad’s face broke into a genuine smile, and he looked like he was relieved to have a reason to wear the expression again. He said, “Of course, Jug. You never have to ask. There will always be a place for you here.”

Well, that was definitely a relief. He relaxed, feeling some of the tension leak out of his frame at that rare glimpse of parental affection his dad had shown. Betty seemed to sense the solace he drew from those words, as she moved her hand back onto her own lap. He smiled easily at his dad and said, “One last thing, dad. I’m not sure if you’ve heard anything about Mrs. Cooper going away--”

His dad nodded, glancing over at Betty.

“--but I was hoping that it would be okay with you for Betty to stay with us a while again.”

With a sympathetic look, his dad said, “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through, Betty. Of course, our home is your home.”

She smiled brightly, looking as if a visible weight lifted from her shoulders as well. “Thanks, Mr. Jones,” she said softly. 

The ghost of Alice Cooper rose between them, threatening to tear apart the trailer with her bare hands. Jughead saw her, and he was sure that Betty and his dad saw her too, but no one spoke of her presence. In fact, his dad raised the coffee cup to his mouth again and took another long drink, purposely ignoring her. If she later decided to take on a corporal form and return, they would deal with her then.

It took a day or two, maybe three, but they settled comfortably into their former routine. Betty often cooked them muffins, or pancakes, or some sort of egg pie that she called a quiche. They had sandwiches for lunches, and fresh fruit on the counters, and more lettuce in the fridge than had probably been there cumulatively in the entire year past. She baked wings in the little neglected oven, nursed chili, filled her own wonton wrappers, and boiled pasta.

His dad was still quiet, still wounded, still broken. It took all of those days for him to start smiling with his eyes again. By the end of the week, he was joking as Jughead scrubbed dishes at the end of the night. Whatever had happened in Toledo had undoubtedly shaken him, but the transformation of the trailer from a tomb into a home had laid the foundation for some healing to finally begin. Jughead didn’t ask him what had happened again. He didn’t need to know.

By the end of the following week, come early evening, the trailer was filled with leather-clad individuals praising Betty’s cooking. Sweet Pea single-handedly ate more than half of the meatballs she cooked on Tuesday. Jughead and his dad sheepishly admitted to polishing off the entire pecan pie she’d left out to cool, both thinking that it had been meant as a midnight snack. Betty woke up to an empty pie plate and two dirty forks in the sink.

The bathroom smelled like watermelon shampoo. The kitchen smelled like he imagined heaven had to smell. In a matter of days, Betty’s presence completely transformed his childhood home into a nearly unrecognizable paradise.

Jughead looked up as she cracked eggs into the frying pan, tossing the shells into the sink for the garbage disposal. Wearing athletic shorts and his grey “S” t-shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders, he watched as she danced quietly and hummed while she brandished her spatula. He leaned one elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, smiling contentedly. One day, he hoped that they’d be able to live like this in their own space. And maybe, if he was really lucky, that she’d be willing to live there forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to look up floorplans of single-bedroom trailers out of sheer curiosity for this one. Does anyone know what sort of model the Jones trailer might be? I see people write about Jughead's bedroom, but then again, in season 2 there was that lovely conversation with Alice where FP told her that he was sharing the pull out couch with Jughead so that Betty could have his room. Do we think that Jughead and FP moved after his mom left, and downsized?


End file.
